


From Hollow Into Light

by annejumps



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: BDSM, Belts, Bottom!Eames, Community: inception_kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Painplay, Possessive Behavior, Rope Bondage, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-12 00:07:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames' body starts to come alive in ways he’s missed while at the same time he feels he can finally relax, let go. Arthur’s got him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Hollow Into Light

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this prompt](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/20822.html?thread=51486806) from inception_kink. Beta'd by [anatsuno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatsuno/pseuds/anatsuno).

“Yes.”

He can tell Arthur’s in an airport -- there’s a distant bustle, the clicks of heels and dress shoes on tile, and announcements over the loudspeaker.

Just that one syllable sets his heart jumping, and fills his veins like a narcotic relief.

“Seven sixty-eight, please, at location eighty-four,” he says.

Eames hangs up the battered payphone. It’s pouring just outside this bus station, and the jungle plants are lush and green, slick with water.

The next day, he’s waiting in location 84. It’s one of their safehouses, randomly assigned a number. What they’ve come to think of as seven sixty-eight was randomly assigned a number as well. It’s not raining today, and the town is baking congenially, bright pastel buildings and blue skies. Fluffy white clouds. It’s almost enough to make him forget the jobs he just did.

Almost.

This happens sometimes. Forging is quite difficult to begin with, but there are jobs where he has to stretch himself: forge someone who hurts, who’s in pain, be it emotional, or physical, or both. Worse yet, someone who causes the hurt. Eames might be a thief and an easy liar, he might look out for himself first and feel no shame for it -- someone has to do it -- but he’s not deliberately cruel. He’s not sadistic. He can fake it, though. He can play the part.

There are jobs that are simply relentlessly challenging: quirks that have to be perfectly captured in a forge, foreign phrases to learn and memorize, details that must be remembered. Lately, though, it’s been a string of jobs that either weren’t easy or were particularly harsh, and while Eames has no problem depositing the payout into any of his bank accounts, he doesn’t have to enjoy every single aspect.

Besides which, and most importantly, it’s been ages since he’s seen Arthur.

The apartment is small, sparsely decorated, and quiet, tucked away at the back of the building. Eames strips naked and kneels in the middle of the bedroom floor, the lights out in the dusk that’s starting to fall, his hands clasped behind his back as he knows Arthur will want to find him. He hasn’t bathed or showered yet; that’s for Arthur, too. But he has at least shed his clothes, along with them the stale smell of airports and jungle and food, and he feels lighter already.

He’s almost fallen asleep when the door opens and the light comes on, and Arthur’s there, bag over his shoulder and raincoat askew, looking rumpled, shadows under his eyes. He looks worried, Eames realizes, straightening up but remaining on his knees. He doesn’t speak, just tries to project reassurance with his expression. Arthur needn’t be quite so worried.

Arthur sets down his bag and sheds his coat, and goes to stand before Eames, who presses his head to Arthur’s leg. Arthur’s hand immediately goes to his hair, petting it, stroking it. Soothing.

“Who are you?” he asks, voice smoky and slightly hoarse with weariness, reminding Eames of the purple dark outside.

“I am yours,” Eames answers immediately, voice low. He feels better already for saying it. Arthur’s long fingers rub his scalp in reward.

“Wait here, Eames,” Arthur says, with a caress of his cheek.

He watches as Arthur goes to start the bath. Hot hot hot water, with oils and salts mixed in. It will have cooled properly by the time they’re done, and they can always add more.

“Eames. On the bed,” Arthur says, walking back into the bedroom and rolling up his sleeves. Eames has been getting hard since Arthur touched his hair, but the sight of Arthur’s dextrous fingers turning up his cuffs sends an insistent pulse through his cock. Eames gets on the bed.

Arthur ties him to it spread-eagled, with the silken black rope he has for this purpose. Eames lets his weight sink into the mattress. He knows he’s unusually quiet, and can see the concern Arthur’s trying to hide in his frown. But his hands are calm and efficient, giving Eames the amount of tension he needs.

His eyes fall closed, and he finds himself sliding back into the last job, hearing the mark’s screams of betrayal once more as she lunged forward and pushed her sister (Eames) off a sea cliff. He sits up -- or tries -- with a jerk and a gasp.

“Hey.” Arthur presses a hand to his chest, gentle but firm. Eames falls back, heart pounding. “Eames. What do you want,” Arthur continues, softer.

“Make me feel,” Eames says.

“Want to tell me what happened?” Arthur asks.

“Mark figured us out. I was dashed to bits on a sea cliff,” Eames replies, flip but somehow flat.

“Not too out of the ordinary for you,” Arthur observes, but the crease between his brows remains.

“I know.” Eames shrugs. “But I.... It wasn’t just this job. It was the job before this, and before that. I feel washed out, I suppose. Faded. Diminished. Numb.” He sighs. “I’m all muddled.”

“You don’t have to explain anything further if you don’t want to,” Arthur says. “You called me, I came.”

“Yes, I know. And I appreciate that, love.” Eames swallows. “I know you must be exhausted, but Arthur, if you would.... Use me, abuse me, ride me hard, put me up wet.” His grin is wan, and he feels it falter. Arthur sweeps in to capture his mouth in a kiss, his clothes rubbing against Eames’ bare skin.

“The usual, then,” Arthur whispers, a grin in his voice, before kissing him again. Eames hums in affirmation.

Oddly, in a contrast he’s always enjoyed, as he’s kissed his body starts to come alive in ways he’s missed while at the same time he feels he can finally relax, let go. Arthur’s got him. Arthur’s got him, and again he feels that sense of relief.

Arthur likes to stay clothed for as long as possible at first, because he’s a fucking tease who knows how much Eames likes to look at him dressed up, as well as how much of a reward Eames feels it to be when he finally strips naked. Arthur sits back now, astride Eames’ thighs, and draws his hands down Eames’ chest, making sure to touch his nipples. “You want me to mark you up or do you have a job right after this that you haven’t told me about?” His brow arches, but he’s dimpling.

“I haven’t got one for a while. Mark me up, darling.” Arthur’s expression softens and he leans in to leave a trail of little biting kisses on Eames’ chest. Eames arches his back and tilts his head, and Arthur noses in to nip at his neck. He gives one of Eames’ nipples a hard pinch, and Eames gasps in surprise. “I’ve missed you so,” he sighs.

Arthur palms his hip and bites gently at a stretched bulge of muscle in Eames’ shoulder. Eames catches him inhaling his faint scent of sweat, and can’t help grinning. “Missed you too,” Arthur says, leaning in to kiss him again.

Seven sixty-eight means Arthur will find Eames naked, tie him up like this and do things to Eames until he’s begging Arthur to fuck him, and then get him in a warm bath. Then they sleep. In the mornings, it’s usually Arthur’s turn to ride Eames, once they’re both refreshed after a solid night’s rest.

But that’s the next day, and right now all Eames can think about is getting Arthur to fuck him. He knows Arthur wants to, is dying to, but Arthur loves getting him to a fever pitch, and to make him beg, and part of Eames craves to be stripped down to bare desperation. It probably won’t take long tonight; it’s been too long and Eames is thirsting for him.

“Arthur, please, I want to feel your skin,” Eames says, and licks his dry lips.

“You will,” Arthur replies. He sits back, on his heels alongside Eames. “Now,” he says, conversational, “you know what we haven’t done in a long time?”

Arthur’s hands go to his belt buckle and Eames sucks in a breath. Arthur draws his leather belt through the loops with a liquid sliding sound, wraps his hands in it, and pulls. Eames makes fists as well, to keep from squirming in anticipation, and feels his skin getting hotter, his cock starting to drip onto his belly. He can almost feel Arthur’s eyes on him. “Yeah, you want this?” Arthur says, low, dimpling again.

“Yes, please.” Eames realizes he’s straining to spread his thighs wider, and forces himself to stop.

“One condition,” Arthur says, idly pulling the belt through his fingers, playful.

“Anything.” He could almost mean it, with Arthur. Regardless, it’s the thing to say.

“Talk to me. You stop talking, and I’ll stop.” Arthur takes the belt in one hand, and takes off his shoes. He stands on the bed, and Eames observes the way his close-fitting trousers tent. God, but he wants that cock inside him. That said, he’s not to the point of begging just yet.

He redirects his attention to the belt, in Arthur’s sure hands. “Arthur, please, I want to feel it,” Eames says.

Arthur reels out the belt again, pulling it taut. “What do you want to feel?”

“I want to feel your belt on my skin.”

“You ready for it?”

“Yes, pl--” The end of the belt is a hot snap on his thigh, and he gasps. “Oh, yes, more, please.” Two more snaps, different spots on his thighs. Each sting is followed by a little rush of endorphins. “More, please, Arthur, more.”

The belt hits Eames’ inner thighs, and he moans outright, pressing his thighs further apart, wanton, and still asking for more. Of course, despite his pleadings Arthur moves on to his belly, his arms, his chest. Eames keeps up a string of breathless words until he’s tingling everywhere.

“I’m turning you over,” Arthur says.

“Oh, thank God,” Eames says fervently.

Arthur just chuckles. He releases Eames’ ankles, kissing the skin uncovered by the rope, and does the same for his wrists. He then stacks two pillows in the middle of the bed.

Eames stretches, and is stroked by Arthur’s hand along his flank. The same hand then gives him a playful but sharp smack. “Turn over.”

Eames places himself over the pillows, arse in the air. “Hands behind your back,” Arthur directs, and Eames presents Arthur with his hands, crossed at the wrist. Arthur ties them with one of the silken ropes, and Eames starts to relax, pulling against the tie to test it, finding it secure. He sinks into the pillows, trying not to rub his cock into them.

“You ready?”

Eames closes his eyes. “Yes, Arthur.”

“All right. Count for me.”

The doubled loop of the belt hits him right on the curve of his arse. “One,” he sighs after a moment.

Ten blows later -- hard smacks, Arthur doesn’t go easy on him even if it’s only ten -- he’s buzzing and again trying not to hump the pillows.

“Your ass looks fucking gorgeous.... You want me to fuck you like this?” Arthur asks, big hands grasping his cheeks and spreading him. Eames gasps in surprise, and in a bit of pain, his skin still tender. He imagines Arthur’s hips ramming against his tender, swollen arse as he’s filled.

“God, yes, please. All I want,” he says, and buries his face in the bed.

“Breathe for me,” Arthur reminds him, and gives him a very hard pinch. Eames’ legs kick out. Arthur laughs, and from the sounds of it, sits back. Eames strains to look over his shoulder and watch him undress. Arthur winks at him, and nimbly unbuttons his dress shirt. His face is flushed, his eyes darker than usual, but other than that he appears calm. Well, they’ll both be disheveled soon enough.

Off come the shirt, the trousers, and Arthur’s tiny briefs. Out comes the lube, and in short order, in go Arthur’s fingers, drawing a groan from Eames, whose shoulders sink as he opens up. “Please, please, please, Arthur, please,” he says (he’d never have thought, before Arthur, that he’d say “please” quite so often), and at last, Arthur’s fingers are gone and then replaced with his cock.

“Ahhh,” Eames says on another groan. He’s still sore and it feels lovely. He lets his head fall forward, and can’t stop from grinding insistently into the pillow, in an echo of Arthur’s deep thrusts.

And he just gives into it, melts into the bed, breathing in and out on low groans that he can feel reverberating through him. He can feel Arthur’s fingers wrapping around his, holding them tightly.

“That’s it, baby,” Arthur breathes, “you take me so good, you’re perfect,” and he sounds like he’s just barely hanging on. But for all his voice is wrecked, he’s going hard, pounding away. Eames stays limp, just taking it, a conduit for Arthur’s sense of duty to him. He’s hot all over and sucking in great breaths of air.

He’s next aware of Arthur pulling out; Eames’ gasp at the loss blends with the fast slick sounds of Arthur jerking off, his harsh broken breaths as he comes in spurts on Eames’ still-tender skin. No sooner is he done than he’s untying Eames’ wrists and holding his hips. “Turn over.”

“Again? Bossy,” Eames manages to say as he turns, and before he can even laugh at his own quip Arthur’s taking his cock down his throat and Eames is arching his hips toward him, straining, hands going to pull at Arthur’s hair. “Arthur, darling, darling, sweetheart,” he croaks, and he comes, panting. Arthur swallows him down.

He lies there, just breathing, eyes closed, dimly aware of Arthur going to the kitchen, presumably to get him a glass of water. And yes, he’s back shortly, and gets Eames to sit up to drink.

His fingers play in Eames’ sweaty hair. “Ready for that bath?”

The water has cooled down to a temperature Arthur declares acceptable. He gets in, and reaches for Eames, who is on slightly shaky legs, and who settles between his spread legs, leaning back against him. Arthur’s not exactly a fluffy pillow, but Eames wouldn’t trade any other place for this one.

The warm water lulls him, the heat seeping into his bones, and he could fall asleep here, he really could. Arthur strokes his fingers through Eames’ hair, and pets his wet skin, soothing and proprietary. Eames doesn’t really feel like talking, and Arthur doesn’t try to make him. Before he can go to sleep here, though, Arthur sits them up and washes him.

Arthur dries him off as he stands yawning on the bath mat; he drops a simple kiss to Eames’ lips and takes his hand to lead him back to the bedroom. Arthur mops up the lube and come (in their haste, they’d forgotten to put down a towel), turns the pillows over and lays them out properly, and turns out the light. Naked, they get under the sheets.

Arthur curls around him, stroking his skin idly. “Feeling better?” he murmurs.

“I feel wonderful,” Eames tells him, and gives him a kiss. “That was precisely what I needed.” Arthur flushes happily. It’s very important to Arthur to feel useful, Eames knows.

Filled with a sudden rush of affection, he bundles Arthur up and pulls him close, onto himself. “I might possibly love you rather a lot,” he whispers into Arthur’s neck, smiling. “Quite a bit, actually.”

Arthur chuckles sleepily. “Get some rest, Mr. Subspace.”

“I do,” Eames insists, and kisses Arthur’s forehead.

“All right, all right. I know. Sleep,” Arthur orders good-naturedly, and yawns. He settles onto Eames again, arches slightly into the stroke of Eames’ hand down his back, and whispers, “I love you, too. Very much.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Sara](http://solutionforreality.tumblr.com/), [anatsuno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatsuno/), Julia, and Liz for all your help!


End file.
